The Distant Wound
Elara. The name was called out by the Warden, a sharp crack of sound that cut through the heavy, sulfurous air of the Archive. It was a summons, not a greeting. Elara stood up from her desk, her joints popping in the cold. She was thirty-two, a scribe of the lower order, and she had come here for one reason only: to copy the Codex of Oros. Her father was dying. Not of a fever or a wound, but of...
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